


Journaling

by CaineGreyson



Series: Something Old, Something New [4]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Obscurus (Harry Potter), Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-09-02 04:24:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8651110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaineGreyson/pseuds/CaineGreyson
Summary: Credence gets a journal. Newt picks flowers.Neither sleeps.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome back everyone! Thank you to everyone who has read the last three parts, reviewed, or left kudos- you're all wonderful! Hopefully you enjoy this next part- it does include some possible triggering material, so please check the tags.

Credence saves the daisy. Newt teaches him how to press it between the pages of a book and tells him that with time, it will dry, preserved between the thick parchment pages. He starts a collection of flowers all plucked from the grass of the world inside Newt’s suitcase. Newt even gives him one of his own notebooks to press them in- he has stacks upon stacks of them, piles of bound parchment he could never possibly use. 

Credence preserves flowers like memories. He still feels nervous around Newt’s creatures, so he usually goes outside in the morning to help feed them. The rest of the time he sits by the back door and writes what he can into his journal full of flowers, before retiring to the workroom, tugging on his Hufflepuff jumper, and reading one of Newt’s books. 

And every evening after Newt has checked the creatures, he comes inside, puts the kettle on and presents Credence with a tiny bouquet of whatever flowers he has gathered for him that day. They sit together at the table in the middle of the workroom and Credence presses flowers, while Newt scrawls notes into his own journal. Sometimes Newt tells him the name of the plant and where he found it, and Credence takes down the information for future reference.

Most of the time Credence passes the notebook across the table and Newt scribbles messages about the plant’s various uses- one, for example, is excellent for calming inflammation, and another can be crushed into a paste and mixed with wine to form a sort of relaxation draught. His friend (for that is what Newt is, he supposes) is always excited to give him more information, to teach him about everything around him, and Credence takes it all in willingly.

This, the inside of Newt’s suitcase, is home now. They’ve been on the boat to London for almost a week, and there’s only a day or so to go, but Credence can’t imagine leaving this little workspace and all its memories behind. 

He hasn’t even ventured outside since the first day- Newt, who leaves mostly to keep up appearances, tells everyone that poor Credence is terribly seasick, and he just can’t leave their room, poor thing. He takes great delight in recounting the various well-wishes of the boat’s other passengers- many seem to like Newt, and when they hear that his ‘dear friend’ has been taken ill, it results in countless little gifts and treats, all for Credence. 

It feels nice, to be wanted by these strangers who have never even seen him before. 

It feels nicer to have Newt inside the case with him, away from prying eyes. 

 

Newt treats him well- he makes him tea, lends him clothes (“We’ll get some more when we’re safely in London, Credence”), and teaches him as much as he can about magic. In just a week, he has learned so much from Newt, who is always patient and kind, even when Credence can’t get something right. 

Yet sometimes Credence gets ill. 

In the daytime he manages alright- he’s usually able to distract himself with something, and he’s never alone with lively creatures around him and an affectionate Pickett trying to drag him into mischief. However, night is a different story. 

Every night, the chill starts in his gut. It works its way up his spine, morphing into an overwhelming heat as the hours pass. He shakes and shivers even as the sweat begins to pour and his hair sticks to his forehead, damp and stringy, and the thoughts in his head swirl until he can barely comprehend them. It lasts the night, usually until he hears Newt begin to stir in the other room. 

He has chosen to give Credence his bed, sleeping instead on a couch piled with blankets in another room. Credence had asked why he wouldn’t just conjure up another bedroom, but he had simply smiled and told him that it was slightly more difficult than that, and really quite unnecessary for a short-term arrangement such as this. 

So instead Credence lies awake all night and shakes, curled in a ball in the center of Newt’s rather comfortable bed. The only comfort is the smell of trees and earth and something else fresh and green and distinctly Newt, the scent of which clings to the pillow Credence’s tormented head rests on.

He wonders if he should tell Newt that he isn’t sleeping, but he doesn’t want to be a bother. Instead, he feels the effects of the obscurus inside him all night long, and sobs into the pillow.

But at the same time, Newt seems to like him. He makes him tea and sits with him in what can only be described as companionable silence. He draws funny little pictures of his creatures and lets Credence keep Pickett near him during the day, even though he knows that Newt is very close to the little bowtruckle. 

And then there are the flowers. 

The tiny bunches of colourful blooms he presents with a bashful smile every evening, especially for Credence to press into his notebook. They’re usually presented alongside a cup of tea and a story from Newt’s day while he organises himself. He knows for a fact that Newt goes out of his way to gather the flowers- he’s come back later these past three days since he started gathering them. 

If he didn’t want him here he wouldn’t be so kind- unless he wants something, but Credence knows people. He grew up on the streets of New York, surrounded by people who all wanted something from him. He can always tell- but Credence is weak, as Ma often told him, and he cannot refuse kindness. He couldn’t refuse Graves, not when he treated him like he was special, like he was different. But Newt is different in his kindness- instead, he is gentle, and it comes in the form of actions, not words.

 

He’s lying in bed that night, his seventh night with Newt, wrapped in the many blankets Newt insisted on him having, when he notices the cold, grim feeling beginning to build. His heart is pounding suddenly and he feels as though the walls are shrinking in on him, trapping him in a tiny dark box, all alone and with nobody to help him- but then he hears it. 

The creaking of a floorboard outside the door draws his attention, just for a moment. Newt must pause outside for a moment but then he moves on, satisfied with the silence. The kettle whistles. 

A teaspoon clinks against porcelain and Credence can almost see him: Newt, with his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. The warm, flickering light from a lamp highlights the angles of his face and the sharp line of his collarbone, and a soft smile curls the corners of his mouth. He’ll cross the room to the bookshelf and trail his ink-stained fingertips over the worn spines of dusty books before selecting one and sliding it delicately out from between its brethren, as carefully as he would treat any of his creatures. 

Credence feels something in his chest then, rather than in his gut- a tug, a sense of longing. Without even thinking he swings his legs out of bed and moves to get up but then the heat begins to creep over his body and his vision turns spotty. His head feels heavy all of a sudden; he slides forward, dropping his head between his knees, but it doesn’t work and instead he tumbles to the floor, pulling at least one of Newt’s many blankets down with him. 

“Credence? Credence, are you alright?”

The snap of a book closing. Footsteps, quick and light and distinctly Newt’s, cross the floor and then comes the rap of his knuckles against the wooden door. Credence can’t move. It’s too warm in here and he wishes he could pull off his nightshirt- maybe then he could breathe- but he can’t make his arms move, and the sound of the door creaking open has him awash in a wave of relief. 

“Credence-“

Newt is crouched beside him now and he helps him to turn over so that at least he’s on his back now, but he still can’t breathe properly. He is dimly aware of Newt murmuring things in his ear, and they’re probably wonderfully comforting things but he can’t think of anything except the lack of air in his lungs- he’s choking, the air stuck in his throat, and he can hear himself desperately trying to pull oxygen into his lungs but he just can’t. 

Newt looks panicked now, eyes wide and hair messy from a long day of work- he’s talking again but this time it seems urgent and Credence focuses, uses the last of the consciousness left in him to comprehend the words.

“I need you to breathe for me Credence, deep breaths, that’s it… You’re alright, Credence, you’re perfectly safe, you’re having a panic attack- no need to worry darling, it’s alright…” 

He continues his murmuring and at some point, he pulls Credence into his lap so that he can hold him closer and run his fingers through his hair. It’s nice, Credence supposes, once his throat decides to allow in oxygen again. Even though Credence is gangly and awkward, with too-long legs and pointy elbows, Newt keeps him close and hushes him. 

The overwhelming heat from earlier is gone. He’s cold now, and still shaking, but Newt is pleasantly warm, so he nuzzles his face against the side of his neck and knows that when he’s fully conscious and not entirely drained, he’ll be embarrassed about this. 

“Credence, darling, why don’t we get you back into bed? You’re exhausted, you poor thing- you haven’t been sleeping at all, have you?”

He continues his talking but Credence is occupied with trying to make his limbs do something that could be called coordination. He tumbles onto the mattress, and feels Newt draw a blanket over him. It’s a tender gesture but it isn’t what Credence needs tonight. 

He can’t be alone, and the fear begins to claw at his throat again as Newt looks as though he may be getting ready to go.

“Don’t leave.”

Newt looks shocked. He blinks at Credence, bewildered, but after a moment he nods and a nervous little smile breaks out over his features.

“Of course not- I mean, if you’d like me to stay, I can, I mean- in the room or…?”

“Here. In- In the bed. If you don’t mind- I just- I can’t be alone, and I can’t stop shaking.”

Hesitance is written all over Newt’s face, but his hand strokes Credence’s hair and he nods, though it seems mostly to himself.

“I’ll be back in just a moment, hold on. I need to get something.”

When he returns, two mugs of tea are floating in front of him and in his hand is the notebook full of flowers.

They drink their tea and talk for a while, but Credence’s eyelids are drooping and he can see that Newt is beginning to doze. He takes the journal and places it on the bedside table, next to their long-empty mugs, and curls up among the warm blankets. Newt’s hand reaches out to brush his waist, just barely, and Credence leans into the touch.

“Here, Credence, darling, try…” 

Newt rearranges them so that Credence’s head is resting against Newt’s chest, their legs tangled together beneath a layer of blankets. Credence revels in the warmth of this moment, and wonders at the beauty of such a little word as ‘darling’.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading and I really hope you enjoyed! If you did, leave a comment below to let me know, because they motivate me to write more.


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